Inside, the club was dark; it was a place built for the night, not the day; there were no windows. It only came alive in the evenings, but for now it was spookily still, empty. The atmosphere was chilly.
Annie reached out to the wall on the right of the closed door, switched on a bank of lights. All at once the big room sprang into focus: acres of brown carpet, faux tiger-skin chairs and deep chocolate-brown banquettes tucked away in quiet, private recesses. And everywhere, there was gold. On the walls, the ceiling. Great gilded angels were spreading their wings; golden poles were set into tiny podiums, gold-framed paintings adorned the walls.
‘What did I just say?’ asked Hunter.
‘Dunno. I wasn’t listening,’ said Annie, and walked over to the bar and found another switch. The blue neons flickered and flared into life.
‘I said don’t touch.’
Annie was looking around her. Over to the right were the private dancing rooms behind gold beaded curtains. And to the left? The stairs up to Dolly’s flat. Her eyes went there, and stayed.
‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ said Hunter, watching her face.
Her eyes met his. ‘There’s nothing there, right? She’s gone.’
Hunter nodded and turned to lead the way. He unclipped the rope at the bottom of the stairs and started up. Annie followed, not wanting to. All right, she wasn’t going to see Dolly there, but this was where she’d died. If spirits did linger, then surely Dolly was up in the flat now, waiting for them, waiting for her. Waiting for someone to find her killer, take revenge, let her rest.
Hunter stopped at the top of the stairs and pushed open the flat door, which was covered in grey dust where the technicians had collected fingerprints. He stepped inside. This room was brighter than downstairs, with an outside window; but the light filtering in through the closed curtains was drab. Hunter flicked on the overhead light and everything came to life. Pink everywhere, Dolly’s favourite colour. Cushions and doilies and stuff, this was very much a woman’s room. And…
‘Fuck,’ said Annie faintly, her eyes fixed on the rug in front of the gas fire. The off-white sheepskin was soiled with a dinner-plate-sized splodge of blood. Dolly’s blood. There were streaks of blood on the wallpaper beside the hearth, on the mirror over it, and on the fireplace itself. There were little numbered pointers that had been placed here and there by the crime scene boys.
